The Major's Letter
by Robert Ladd
Summary: THE MAJOR'S LETTER is a fictional account of the last week in the life of Union Major Sullivan Ballou, featuring the famous letter he wrote to his wife Sarah shortly before his death at the Battle of Bull Run. Made famous by the PBS Documentary "The Civil War," Ballou's letter has been called one of the most eloquent statements of love and devotion found in 19th century literature.


**PROLGUE**

July 21, 1861

First Battle of Bull Run

Prince William County, Virginia

The cannonball seemed to come out of nowhere. He didn't recall hearing the sound of it being fired, but as soon as it struck him, the Major knew exactly what had happened. His horse Dakota crumpled, killed instantly as the 8-pound ball tore open a hole in its side the size of a fist. The horse's rider, Union Major Sullivan Ballou, managed to pull his right boot from the stirrup before his beloved steed crashed to the ground. It wasn't necessary to remove the left boot however as it was completely severed upon the shell's impact.

Strangely Ballou felt no pain. Even when he rolled onto his back and discovered his left leg was missing at mid-shin. He found himself staring mutely as his mangled limb when the zing of a musket ball reminded him of his plight.

Get to cover! He commanded himself. Now!

Twenty feet away stood a small fence made of stone. Ballou crawled toward it as rifles cracked all around him, the air filled with flying lead, almost as if the woods were filled with a thousand angry wasps. Dirt and leaves leaped as the bullets struck all around him. One slug ripped the hat from his head, and sent it flying as if suddenly jerked by an invisible string. Finally reaching the fence, he flung himself behind it, safe for the moment from the Confederate rifles.

Ballou removed his belt and tied it as a tourniquet just above the knee. He was actually shocked that there wasn't more blood. In fact, there was hardly any blood at all; just the exposed bone and ragged pants leg. He had no way of knowing that not only had the leather of his boot been blown from his leg but was blown _into_ his leg as well, miraculously capping off the femoral artery. If not he would died within minutes.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Rifle fire sounded to his right as a trio of Confederate snipers took aim. Chips from the stone fence flew into the air like shards of glass. Ballou scrunched lower to the ground, pressing his face into the leaves and dirt. He pulled his revolver and readied himself for the attack. A few moments later, peering over the top of the fence, he saw a half-dozen soldiers in gray advancing toward him.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

This time the fire was coming from his left as Ballou's men joined the fight, and rallied to save their fallen leader.

The Confederates quickly retreated under the heavy fire, and then, just as quickly as the shooting began, it stopped. For five, ten, fifteen minutes the only sound in the woods was the distant rumble and shouts of war being fought elsewhere in the valley and beyond. Ballou lay perfectly still. Had the Confederates left the woods entirely? Had they sensed they were outnumbered and fled? More likely they were regrouping elsewhere, preparing themselves for an attack along the right flank.

Ballou glanced once again at his leg. Why wasn't there any pain, he wondered? And more blood? The only sensation he had was a numbness from the hip down. He assumed correctly that he was in shock, and it was the shock that somehow shut down that portion of his central nervous system that dictated pain. He knew he had to be in sheer agony, but through His divine providence, God had devised a way to short-circuit the agony. At least for the time being.

And then, without realizing why or how, Ballou understood the role that God played in war. God did not choose sides, as some in the Union claimed. Instead, if men were foolish enough to engage in killing one another for a cause, God would be there: comforting both men in gray and blue alike when they were injured. In fact, God not only comforted them but stood beside them both on the field of battle, so that when they were near death, they could feel his presence.

Ballou had no idea why this thought suddenly came to him. Was it because he was lying wounded amongst enemy soldiers who wanted nothing more than to end his life? Or was it because he was dying already without realizing it?

Suddenly then the noise of men killing men upon the hillsides and fields vanished. The only sound was the gentle sweep of wind in the treetops. The smoke-filled woods seem to clear itself of the smells of gunpowder and fear and death. Overhead, through a gap in the trees, Ballou saw a sky the color of his wife's eyes, pale and blue and shining, and then time stood still.

The Major removed from his jacket pocket a letter he'd written his wife Sarah just the night before. Fear of his imminent death in battle persuaded him to write her one last time, and to try to put into words his unfailing love for her. His regiment began its march to war before he had a chance to finish it. He read the last paragraph.

_But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the brightest day and in the darkest night—amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours—always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by._

Then with a pencil stub, he scribbled these words at the bottom of the page.

_As for my little boys, they will grow as I have done, and never know a father's love and care. Little Willie is too young to remember me long, and my blue-eyed Edgar will keep my frolics with him among the dimmest memories of his childhood. O Sarah, I wait for you there! Come to me, come to me with our children. Your loving husband, Sullivan._

Ballou placed the letter back into his pocket and waited. His heart rate dropped, his pulse slowed. The colors around him faded to gray, even the sky above. Slowly his eyes closed as sleep overtook him. His last conscious thoughts were of his two children, his home in Rhode Island and the lovely face of his wife Sarah. Sweet, radiant, beautiful Sarah. He so hoped the letter would reach her.

**CHAPTER ONE**

**One Year Earlier:**

Early morning sunlight filtered through the window and onto the bed of Sullivan and Sarah Ballou. Sullivan had already risen, collected eggs from the hen house, a slab of bacon from the larder and returned to the kitchen. It was Sarah's thirtieth birthday, and he wanted to surprise her with breakfast in bed.

"Willie, draw some fresh water, would you?" he said to his ten-year-old son, handing him a small pail. He looked to Willie's younger brother. "And Edgar, tiptoe upstairs and make sure your mother is still in bed."

The two children immediately went about their chores, glad to have a role in their secret gift to their mother. Willie made sure the door did not bang behind him as he left the house then raced across the yard to the well. Edgar mounted the staircase as if he were walking on eggshells, quiet as a mouse. Peeking through the door to his parent's room, he saw his mother sitting up in bed. She smiled when he poked his small head in the room.

"Well, good morning, sir," Sarah said warmly. "You're up bright and early."

Edgar did not return his mother's smile. He felt as if he had somehow spoiled the surprise. Sarah noticed his concern.

"What is it?" she said.

Edgar glanced back down the stairs, wondering if he should alert his father. He looked back to his mother with a worried expression.

"Edgar," Sarah said. "Come here."

Edgar did as he was told. Standing next to her bed, he couldn't quite bring his eyes to meet hers. Sarah lifted his chin so that he had no choice. "Sweetheart," she said lovingly. "Is there something wrong?"

Edgar moved his small mouth from side to side. "Daddy's fixing breakfast," he said quietly.

Sarah nodded. "How wonderful. And why has that upset you?"

"Because it was supposed to be a surprise. For you."

Suddenly an overwhelming love embraced Sarah. Love for her son, love for her husband, love for the life she and her family were leading. God had been good to the Ballou family. She moved over and patted the bed to her side. Edgar climbed onto the covers next to her.

"Why don't we do this?" Sarah said softly. "Why don't you go down and tell you father I'm still in bed. That way, you won't be telling a fib. I'll wait here until you come get me for breakfast. How about that?"

A grin spread across the young boy's face. He nodded his agreement, climbed down from the bed and hurried from the room. Sarah watched as he left, and as always, a little bit of heart broke. Her four-year-old son was born with a mild case of scoliosis; a curvature of the spine that made his walk slightly bent at the waist. Doctors predicted her he had a 50/50 chance of growing out of it, but she had her doubts. As a result of his handicap, Edgar was teased by other children. A teasing that made him feel different, and that difference expressed itself through a painful shyness. The only person near his age that made him feel normal was his brother Willie.

"So, you're a little crooked," Willie told him. "Don't worry about that. Learn to use your head, not your back."

Edgar loved Willie because he was his brother; but he also loved him because he was his friend.

Once he arrived back in the kitchen, Edgar told his father that his mother was still in bed then scooted out the back door to avoid being questioned further. He knew he couldn't lie so he decided the best way to avoid the truth was to make himself scarce.

From her bedroom window, Sarah watched her two children in the yard below. Willie was getting so big now. He was almost as tall as her. He had his mother's hair and eyes but his father's broad shoulders and narrow waist. He was already a handsome young man and, she noticed at the church social last week, a growing interest in girls.

"He's got a few years more before he goes down that road," Sullivan told his wife when she mentioned Willie's newfound interest in the opposite sex. "I was twelve years old when I kissed my first girl."

"But that was so long ago," his wife teased him. "Children grow up quicker now days."

"So how old were you when you first tasted love?" he asked.

"I kissed a boy when I was six, but really didn't know what it meant. It was just something I saw my mother and father do." She laughed at the memory. "The six-year-old boy I kissed didn't seem to like it at all."

Sullivan chuckled. "Little boys have other things on their minds at that age. If you'd been a frog or a turtle, he would have been much more interested."

It was memories such as these that stirred Sarah's heart as she watched her children outside, Willie toting a pail of water, Edgar walking at his side. But these memories were interrupted by the sound of a distant bugle. Across an open field, she saw a dozen mounted soldiers, dressed in blue, galloping toward town. There was no cause for alarm however. They were only in training, but the news over the past few weeks had been ominous. A potential conflict was brewing, as a group of states in the south grew increasingly impatient over government intrusion into their livelihood, particularly the growing of cotton and the slave trade that accompanied it.

"War?" Sullivan had said to his wife. "No, we're not head to war. Those gentlemen in the south don't want it. Neither do we. Lincoln will settle the matter before it gets out of hand."

As it turns out, Sullivan was both right and wrong. Neither side wanted to fight, but both would. And Lincoln would indeed settle the matter, but not before it claimed the lives of over 600,000 men.

A soft knock on the door drew Sarah's attention. It was Edgar.

"Mommy, are you awake now?"

Sarah looked to her son and smiled. "Yes, I'm awake now."

Edgar turned and nodded to someone behind him. The door opened and Sullivan entered the room, carrying a metal tray filled with food. Behind came Willie, armed with a pot of coffee, and behind him came Edgar, carrying a brightly-wrapped birthday present.

The three Ballous sang an out-of-tune version of "Happy Birthday," after which Sarah hugged each one of them in turn, kissing her husband squarely on the lips.

"Would you prefer that?" she asked her husband with a twinkle in her eye. "Or would a frog be better?"

Sullivan leaned close so that his nose touched that of his wife's. "Frogs are nice," he said with a grin. "But I'll take kissing over gigging any day."

"Good answer," Sarah said. "Now, what's for breakfast?"

This was a wonderful beginning to a wonderful day. And there would be many more like it, but everything would soon change. For on April 12, 1861, the Confederate Navy would fire upon a Union outpost known as Fort Sumter, signaling the beginning the bloodiest conflict the United States would ever know.

The American Civil War was now 243 days away.

CHAPTER TWO

Congressman John Jacobs sat next to Sullivan Ballou in the House Chambers of Rhode Island. Ballou was the recently-elected Speaker of the House, and already considered a potential candidate for Governor.

"What do you think of all this war talk?" Sullivan asked.

Jacobs, a man with a loud voice and opinions to match said, "I doubt that it will happen. There's too much at stake for the southern cotton plantations. If they raise a hand against the Union, that will leave them only with England as a customer. They'd be cutting off their nose to spite their face."

Ballou considered his friends opinion. "I'm so sure about that, John. The South is more interested in state's rights than cotton. If Washington continues to interfere in their day-to-day affairs, I'm afraid it will not bode well for any of us."

Jacobs raised an eyebrow. "Are you talking about secession?"

"I'm not sure what route they'll take," Ballou said gravely. "But I can assure you of this: they will not stand idly by as the world they've known for over a hundred years is changed for the betterment of all men."

"You mean slavery."

"Yes, that, and the right to live as free men, independent of a federal government."

Jacobs laughed. "You can't be serious. If there is secession, that would mean war. And any state that engages in war with Washington would be crushed in a matter of weeks."

Ballou knew he could not change his colleague's mind, so he didn't try. Nothing is so firm as the biased opinion of an egotistical politician. Unfortunately a great many men and women, politicians and otherwise, agreed with Jacob's assessment. In fact, most of Rhode Island considered the threats as mostly talk from a small group of rabble-rousers and extremists who had nothing better to do with their time than argue with the government.

Somehow though, Ballou felt they were severely underestimating the will of the men south of the Mason Dixon Line. He knew them to be a very serious lot, with more than enough courage to stand up for what they felt was their birthright as a state. Thus far, President Lincoln had remained neutral or at least silent on the matter. Ballou hoped if war actually did arrive in the United States that the right man was in the White House. He personally felt Lincoln capable but unproven. And in time of war, unproven can become a fatal flaw.

"What is your opinion of Lincoln?" Ballou asked Jacobs.

"Lincoln?" Jacobs said with a smirk. "He'll never win the election. Seward is the man who is going to Washington."

Though Ballou seldom sought out an argument, this was one he could not resist.

"I disagree, John. While he may not be the most experienced candidate we've had, Lincoln has a vision of what must be done to preserve the Union."

Jacobs shook his head. "Don't tell me he has you in his pocket already? Just because you introduced him to the House in February, you think he's suddenly qualified to be the most powerful man in America?"

This statement was partially true. While far from being in anyone's pocket, Ballou did in fact, persuade Lincoln to address the House of Representatives in February. It was a rousing introduction of the man few people knew, as Lincoln shared his thoughts on the rights and privileges of living in a free nation, and "How, we as a nation, cannot endure half-slave and half-free."

Few members of the House had ever heard Lincoln speak, and were duly impressed with his skill, but openly skeptical of his assessment.

"And besides," Jacobs continued, "He's uneducated. He has little formal schooling past the eighth grade, and little experience in politics. The country would be better off with a more seasoned politician"

Ballou fondly recalled the few hours he spent with Lincoln prior to his speech.

"Tell me, Congressman Ballou," Lincoln said with a slight smile. "What kind of reception can I expect today?"

"Mr. Lincoln," Ballou replied. "You're a Republican candidate for president of the United States. You will have many friends in the House, I assure you."

Lincoln laughed. "But it's not the friends I'm concerned with. It's who reacts the loudest."

Prior to meeting the man from Illinois, Ballou had formed several opinions of the backwoods politician, none of which were proving to be true. He envisioned Lincoln as stoic yet found him out-going, arrogant yet discovered him humble, serious and was pleasantly surprised to find he had a wonderful sense of humor.

"Mr. Lincoln," Ballou confessed after an hour-long chat. "I have to confess you are not the man I thought you might be."

A warm light shone in Lincoln's eyes. "Ah, yes, I see you've been reading the newspapers. You realize of course that you should believe only half of what you see and nothing of what you read. Unless it is a flattering article, then believe it as you would the gospel."

Ballou was charmed, which was not an emotion he felt easily toward a man running for public office.

Later that same afternoon, Ballou's wife Sarah and his two children arrived at the House Chambers, and were introduced.

"It's an honor to meet you," Lincoln said as he extended his hand.

"The pleasure is all mine," Sarah replied. "I've read quite a bit about you in the newspapers."

Lincoln and Ballou exchanged looks, after which both men couldn't help but laugh.

"Unfortunately, so have I," Lincoln replied with a grin.

Sarah caught the humor and assured Lincoln that she only read only the most reputable newspapers, which always had positive reports on him.

"What a splendid response," Lincoln said. "I can see that a bit of Sullivan's political nature has rubbed off on you."

Lincoln looked down to the children. "And who do we have here? Such fine looking young men."

Willie raised his hand. "I'm Willie, sir, and this is Edgar."

Lincoln shook both the boy's hands. "I have a son about your age," he said to the older boy. "His name is Willie also. He's ten."

"Me too," Willie said, happy to have something in common with the tall man.

"Do you have any with my name?" Edgar asked unexpectedly.

Lincoln kneeled down so that he was at young boy's height. "No, we have no Edgars, but I have a son Tad, who will be seven in April. How old are you?"

Edgar smiled broadly, revealing a missing tooth he'd lost in a wrestling match at school. "I'm eight and a half, but I'm short because of my back."

Lincoln nodded quietly. "I see. And what's wrong with your back?"

"It doesn't grow straight, but Mama said I might grow out of it."

The room suddenly grew quiet as the tall man with the wise eyes, gazed upon the small boy. He placed his hand gently on Edgar's head. "It's not how tall you are that counts, Edgar," Lincoln then tapped Edgar's chest. "It's what's in here."

On the way home that afternoon following Lincoln's address, Sarah leaned close to her husband. "I'm embarrassed to admit something," she said.

"Which is?" Sullivan asked with curiosity.

"I'm afraid I misjudged Mr. Lincoln."

"How so?"

"I thought him to be an unsophisticated, backwoods lawyer who somehow stumbled into the political arena, sure to be crushed by the hard ways and harder men of Washington."

"And what do you think now?"

"Now, I think he may have a chance at the presidency. A very good chance."

"Yes," Sullivan said. "He certainly knows how to deliver a speech."

"It's not the speech that changed my mind. It was the way he spoke to Edgar. Any man that would kneel before a child and talk directly to him without any pretense or false sentiment, is a great human being. And it is great human beings that make great presidents."

Sullivan smiled. "You seem quite taken with Mr. Lincoln. Do I have reason for concern? You know he's a happily married man."

"You're right, I am taken with Mr. Lincoln, but I'm in love with you."

"And how does being taken with someone and being in love with someone differ?"

"That, Mr. Ballou," Sarah replied, a suggestive lilt in her voice. "I will gladly demonstrate when we get home tonight."

Sullivan laughed then shouted at the horse-drawn carriage, "Get on, now boys! We haven't got all day!"

To which the horses responded by breaking into a gallop.

Willie cheered their effort and Edgar stood, tapping his chest with his right hand, saying, "It don't matter how tall I get. I got something better!"

And the entire Ballou family broke into a happy song together.

It was a wonderful day (and night) for them all.


End file.
